


Memory of Something Beautiful

by Lilian Enke (AnnieVH)



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/Lilian%20Enke
Summary: When it's all over, Marcus goes to say goodbye to Peter.





	Memory of Something Beautiful

 

Once it's all over and they're allowed to leave, Marcus asks Tomas for a couple of hours.

“I want to say goodbye to Peter,” he explains.

Given the latest development, Marcus thinks Tomas will have something to say on the matter and, truth be told, he could use a judgmental voice of reason right about now, someone to remind him of his duties to the Church. Instead, Tomas grins like a frat boy and says, “I guess I'll see you in the morning, then.”

Marcus tells him to sod off, but doesn't correct him.

He follows Andrew's directions to the other side of the island, quickly becoming breathless as the pain in his legs and back turn from a dull reminder to a horrible ache. These have been a terrible couple of weeks and Marcus can't wait to put them behind. If he were any wiser, he'd still be in the bed that Rose graciously offered them instead of rushing back to Chicago, but he was never really good at staying put for long. It's time to leave.

He just needs to make this one stop first.

Even though the night is freezing, Peter is on the porch, saving Marcus the agony of deciding whether to knock or leave. The door to his cabin is wide open as though he didn't think anything harmful could sneak inside. His life is simple that way.

Peter looks up from his phone and Marcus waves at him from down the road.

Peter points at the purple bruise on his left eye and asks, “I should see the other guy?”

“You should see the other guy,” Marcus says, with a smile. “Are you busy?”

“Work email,” Peter says, holding up his cellphone. “My boss is not satisfied with my inconclusive reports on the unusual behavior animals have been exhibiting on the island. He wants me to run more tests.”

“I'm sure it'll go back to normal soon.”

Peter makes a non-committal sound. “Global warming will kill us all, I tell you.” He put the phone down and smiles. “How's Andy?”

“He's doing much better. Should be back on his feet in a couple of days.”

“Good. And the kids are...?”

“Fine,” Marcus says, trying not to think of their horrified faces or Harper's shrill voice, louder than Andy's agonizing sounds from the floor above, as she told him, “Mommy was right, it's true, it's all true, it's _inside_ me!” He'd tried his best but he wasn't sure he'd managed to dissuade her from that horrible thought.

Peter nods. “Good, I'd hate to see them get some nasty virus.” He gets to his feet. “Did you come for the beer?”

“If the offer still stands.”

Peter beckons him to come inside and closes the door behind them.

His home is a lot more modest than Andre Kim's, though just as isolated as every other house on the island. It resembled a hunting lodge, were it not for the lack of trophies and antlers on the walls. Instead, there were pictures of very alive animals everywhere.

“You photograph,” Marcus says, analyzing the picture of a blue macaw about to take flight. He might try to replicate the sheer majesty of the bird later but he doesn't think it'll look the same without the vibrant colors.

Peter laughs on his way to the kitchen. “No, god no. They're gifts from a friend. She travels a lot more than I do.”

Marcus looks around the living room, more out of habit than curiosity. Part of his pessimistic mind expects to find something horrible lurking in the corner but everything looks absolutely normal. There are nick-knacks from souvenir shops all over America, books on wild life and vegan cooking, and one large photo of Peter and other agents around a long picnic table. Marcus can't see family pictures anywhere.

Peter comes back with his beer and Marcus tries not to flinch when he sits on the couch, though his muscles are still complaining because of the long walk. They're so close to one another that there's no space left for misunderstandings, but Peter still keeps his hands wrapped around the bottle and doesn't speak until Marcus points at the picture he'd been looking at and says, “Office picnic, was it?”

“Office fishing trip. Back when I still fished. Now I have to stay at the table with the other vegetarians and promise not to glare.”

Marcus laughs. Peter is so wonderfully mundane. The kind of man who likes nature and goes to office parties and sails with his friends on that boat he loves so much. He knows nothing of demons or hell and he probably thinks the bible is nothing but an illustration of a time when people were too ignorant to rely on science. He'll live a full and happy life in his little home without ever questioning whether there is anything out there that can't be explained by rational thought.

“Marcus?”

“Sorry,” he says, blinking into attention. “Sorry, I was distracted.”

Peter is watching him closely and Marcus can feel it.

“You look like you did on my boat,” he says.

“Seasick?”

“Overwhelmed.”

“I thought I was doing fine on the boat.”

It's such a blatant lie that Peter has to laugh.

“Well, not _fine_ ,” Marcus concedes. “Just... not too horrible.”

“You managed to look simultaneously red _and_ green.”

“Well, the sun didn't kill me and I was getting my sea legs in the end. I'm sure I could get used to it.”

“Are you sticking around a little longer? You could have another go.”

Marcus shifts on the couch so that he can look at Peter. His arm rests on the back cushions and he's tempted to drape it over Peter's shoulders but doesn't feel brave enough, so he rests his head on his hand instead.

“We're leaving in the morning,” he says.

“You and Tomas?”

“Yes.”

Peter drinks to mask his disappointment.

“We've already overstayed.”

“It was kind of you guys to stick around and help him and the kids.”

“It's our job,” Marcus says, knowing that Peter thought he'd spent the last two weeks bringing chicken soup to a convalescent Andrew and making dinner for his five children. His mind, which Marcus has already realized is scientific and rational, couldn't begin to understand the pain Andy was in, or how he'd pushed Tomas against a wall and Marcus down the stairs with nothing but his mind.

“You, sir,” Peter says, “are a couple of good Samaritans.” He sips but puts the bottle down quickly to add, “Which, now that I remember you were a priest, is a term I'm probably misusing and I'm sorry.”

“It's close enough.”

“Yeah, sorry. I used to skip Sunday school.”

Marcus smiles at him. That seems to encourage Peter to reach for his hand though he doesn't hold it right away. Marcus looks down at their fingers, touching very gently, and tells him, “I'm going to be a priest again,” before either of them has the chance to do anything about it.

Peter looks at him but doesn't stop stroking his fingers.

“I got a call from Father Bennet, he's a friend of mine,” Marcus explains. “Apparently, there have been some changes in the Church and they want me back.”

He watches Peter's face as he speaks, not really sure of what he expects to see. There's a glimpse of sadness there but it vanishes quickly and Peter does his best to smile at him.

“It's a good thing, then,” he says.

“Yes. Well, they say I have to work on my obedience,” Marcus says, rolling his eyes and making Peter laugh. “But yes. It's a good thing. It's what I wanted.”

Without letting go of his fingers, Peter says, “So you're Father Marcus again.”

“Not right now, there's a procedure. Bureaucracy. Vows to take. We'll get back to Chicago, get this sorted out and then...” He shrugs. “I don't know.”

“Will that make you happy?”

The question throws him off for a moment. Marcus isn't keen about letting the Church back into his decision making, even though it'll be good to have their power to clear up messes when things get out of hand. And he misses the feeling of being a part of something because he knows he's never going to belong anywhere. He misses the man he used to be. In that sense, going back to the Church is like taking a step back into something unpleasantly familiar, while moving forward into a promising unknown and there's some comfort in that paradox.

However, this isn't what Peter's asking and he knows it. His concept of happiness is something closer to what Marcus has learned to associate with stolen moments in the midst of chaos. Playing his tape recorder so loud he can't hear his own thoughts, for example. Or being here. Peter's life is centered around such things, his own isn't.

“It'll give me back my purpose,” Marcus says. “That's all I'm hoping for.”

Peter doesn't argue, even though he could. He pulls his hand onto his lap, their fingers still cold from holding the bottles of beer, and begins rubbing the palm of Marcus' hand with his thumb. Marcus closes his eyes, committing that moment to memory. If this is all he's ever going to get out of this encounter, he wants to remember it as best he can. The feeling of his skin, the gentleness of his touch, the way his own fingers slowly thaw in his warmth.

“You know, I've been with the Church since I was a child,” he says, almost like he's reminding himself of the fact. He could feel the years imprinted in his bones and on his skin and in the essence of the man he had become.

“Why are you here, Marcus?” he hears Peter ask. His tone is patient, a concern rather than wanting to know whether he's wasting his time. He's looking at him when Marcus opens his eyes, tanned and gray and so very handsome. Even if he tries to draw him, even if Marcus remember every detail, he will never be able to get him exactly right.

“That's over forty years,” he says, as if it were an answer. It isn't. Still, when Peter kisses his wrist, there's a hint of pity in that gesture. He cannot begin to understand what that number means but, if Marcus gave him the chance, he might be willing to try.

He pushes the sleeve out of the way and his lips brush up Marcus' arm. Marcus can hear the sound of his own breathing becoming louder. By the time Peter reaches his neck, he can barely find breath to say, “It's been a while.”

“It doesn't matter,” Peter tells him, right before he kisses him. “I've always planned on doing this slowly.”

 

 

Marcus has a lie ready at the tip of his tongue to explain the pain and the bruises but, in the end, Peter doesn't ask. He undresses him, pushes him down onto the bed and looks down at him as though those shades of black and purple fascinate him just as much as the rest of his body. He lies down beside him not to hurt him further and kisses him again, one hand on the back of Marcus' neck, another running down his torso.

Marcus wishes he were a good twenty years younger, back when a demon could throw him down a flight of stairs and he'd still be walking the next day. At this moment, his entire body feels like a rock, weighing down on Peter's mattress. He's been aching for days now and the little rest and recovery they had been granted did very little to sooth his muscles and his nerves. The moment Peter starts kissing him, though, the tension is all but forgotten.

He presses his lips to the round, purple punch that Andrew Kim left on his chest, then down to the yellowish patch of skin where he was thrown against a banister, all the way down to the bruise on his left thigh where a bedside table collided with him.

“I don't know what you've been doing,” Peter says, nibbling the inside of his thigh. “But I don't think you should move.”

Marcus props himself up on his elbows and looks at Peter, framed between his legs, his shoulders broad and his skin dark, such a contrast with Marcus' paleness. He's a gorgeous man and Marcus would like nothing more than to keep him. Before he can think of a witty remark, Peter takes him into his mouth and all he can do is whimper, “Oh God.” Whether he's thanking the lord or praying for his mercy Marcus doesn't know, he just drops back onto the mattress and doesn't say anything else for a very long while.

By the time Peter asks him to turn on his stomach, Marcus can't remember the bruises or the pain. All he knows is a need that he'd long decided not to think about and that is now resurfacing stronger than ever. He can feel Peter's hands smoothing his lower back, then a single finger tracing one of the lines Father Sean left on his back. His skin is a map of horrible stories and traumas that he'd rather not think about and would hate to repeat out loud. The only question Peter asks is whether he's done this before, and though it's been so long he can barely remember what it feels like, Marcus tells him, “Yes.”

Peter kisses the back of his ear. He says gentle things while he prepares him, pushing his fingers inside of Marcus' body in what is a familiar and promising pressure. When Peter lies on top of him and starts pushing, Marcus savors it. He can't remember if it's always felt this intense but he grabs the headboard and can't breathe until Peter is buried deep inside of him. When he moves, it's shallow and slow, just deep enough to brush at the right spot and send jolts of pleasure up his spine. He feels one of his hands hold him by the throat and another reach in between his legs to stroke him until all of Marcus' coherent thoughts have vanished.

He's missed this more than he'd like to admit, this vital part of himself he's sacrificed in the name of something bigger. He remembers it being out of control in his youth, and then quieting down as he became a man, to the point that he barely thought about it anymore. Every other encounter he's had in more recent years – and even those weren't nearly as recent as he might have liked – were clandestine and fast, an urgent quenching of the thirst so he could go back to abstinence. His life doesn't have a place for these slow moments of intimacy.

Right now, Peter's igniting that long-ignored need all over again and Marcus doesn't know if he'll be able to keep it under control once this is over. He bites on his lips to quiet the sounds and almost hopes the need will disappear if he doesn't think about how good it feels to be touched by another man – a good man, loving and slow where most of his lovers had been quick and careless.

Peter must have felt it because he picked up the pace and said, “I got you,” the words breathed inside his ear, encouraging him. “Let go, my darling, you can let go. I got you.”

And just like that, he's thrown over the edge with no chance of turning back. His mind goes blank and he grinds against Peter's hips so furiously he knows his bruised and battered body will only hurt more in the morning. He doesn't care. He rides the need off until he's left breathless and more satisfied than he's been in years.

Peter kisses the sweat on the back of his neck, still hard but not moving anymore.

Marcus tells him, “Keep going.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and Marcus can tell by that word alone that he's smiling.

“Yeah, keep going.”

Peter doesn't last much longer after that and his voice moaning inside his ear as he finally comes is perhaps the most beautiful sound Marcus has ever heard.

“If I were younger,” Peter says, after a moment, still on top of him and giving no indication that he wants to move, “I'd do this to you all night.”

Marcus grins to the pillow. “Well, it's still early...”

 

 

They shower together and Marcus wishes he could think of anything to say to him but everything that crosses his mind (a multitude of ways to say “thank you”) seems inappropriate somehow. Besides, holding and kissing him under warm water is so comforting that he doesn't want to ruin it by saying the wrong thing. When Marcus lies in his arms, he's happy. A stolen-moment sort of happiness.

Peter runs a hand from Marcus' ribs to his hipbone. There's a bruise there but it can't be seen in the dark.

“How did you get hurt?” Peter asks.

“You should see the other guy,” Marcus answers, with a sleepy smile.

Peter doesn't push and Marcus falls asleep.

He only realizes how ambitious he's been about his own body's limitations the next morning, when he tries to sit up quickly and answer the phone, only for every muscle to start hurting at the same time. Old aches reignite and new ones are suddenly adding to his discomfort.

“Yes?” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Tomas asks.

“Did you- Yes, it's five in the morning.”

“Sorry. You said you wanted to get an early start and the ferry leaves at six. Just checking to see if you changed your mind.”

Marcus looks over his shoulder. It's still dark outside but Peter has opened his eyes and is looking at him. He stretches in bed in a lazy but very inviting way.

“There's another ferry at ten,” Tomas suggests.

“Is there one that leaves at noon?”

There's a pause and Marcus feels his face going warm.

Tomas says, “There is. I'll pack your bag so, you know, you can take your time.”

“You just want to shove your thirty shirts inside my bag.”

“Are you coming to stop me?”

Peter strokes his back.

“Not at all,” Marcus says. “Shove all you want.”

He hangs up and Peter immediately asks, “How are you feeling?”

Marcus kisses him before he has to think about it.

 

 

Peter offers to drive him to the ferry because it's only a ten-minute drive and Marcus already needed his help getting dressed.

“There's no way you can make it to the other side of the island on foot,” he says, tying Marcus' shoes. The massage he's given him earlier was barely enough to ease some of the knots on his back.

“Fine, you have a point,” Marcus says.

Peter smooths his chest and, under the shirt, the bruise the size of a fist that Andrew left behind throbs sightly. Marcus does his best not to wince but Peter still notices it.

“See, that's why you shouldn't pick fights.”

There's a little question mark sneaked into that statement. Marcus just grins and says, “I like to cause trouble.”

Peter sighs. “Okay, don't tell me about your... illegal priest fight club, or whatever it is you did.”

Marcus is laughing when Peter kisses him one more time.

He follows Peter to the truck and gives his cabin one last look over the shoulder. It's a nice home, isolated and quiet, surrounded by nature and good neighbors.

The thought happens before Marcus can do anything about it: _I could be happy here_.

He doesn't know if it's true or just wishful thinking, but now the idea is in his head. Maybe if he were someone else, with a life a lot less complicated and erratic... maybe then he could've belonged to this little corner of the world.

“It was my father-in-law's,” Peter says, making him turn. “I got it in the divorce. It was falling apart back then, the ex couldn't wait to get rid of it.”

“It's beautiful,” Marcus says.

Peter crosses his arms over the roof of the car. “Do you know where you'll be staying in Chicago?”

Marcus opens his mouth to say with Tomas' sister, but says, “I'm not sure yet” instead. He won't have to give Peter a false phone number or address if he lies.

“Then it's an adventure,” Peter says, getting in the car.

Marcus gives the house one last look. It's rather big for just one person, but not big enough to accommodate him. Peter has no place in his life for his demons. And he doesn't want to stay, not really. It'd be selfish of him when there are so many people out there in need of his assistance.

And what does he know of love anyway?

He doesn't make a sound while Peter drives. Just like the night before, there is nothing he can say that will be right.

Once, Peter tells him, “You could stay longer, you know.”

Marcus says, “I know,” but it's all he has to say on the matter. He _could_ stay longer, he'd very much like to, but he really shouldn't. The longer he stays, the harder it'll be to get back to his old life.

Peter understands it. Not all of it, but as much as he can. He holds his hand for just a moment, then holds the stirring wheel again. He doesn't speak again until they've parked.

“There's your friend,” he says, pointing at Tomas. He's found a bench to sit on and has their duffle bags at his feet. Thankfully, Tomas has no visible injuries that would make Peter even more suspicious.

Marcus looks at Peter. Of all the things he needs to say, all he manages is, “Will you keep an eye on Harper?”

Peter frowns. “You know you can trust Andy-”

“I know, I know, it's not- she needs more attention than other kids.”

Whether he means it or just wants to put Marcus' mind at ease, Peter says, “Sure, I'll keep an eye on her.”

“Good, that's good.”

Marcus looks at his partner. Tomas looks like he can't wait to get home to his sister and nephew.

“Marcus, you sure you're alright?” Peter asks.

Marcus kisses him before he has the time to second guess himself. Just one more time so he won't forget it. He whispers, “Thank you,” when they pull apart.

Peter looks at him with something like heartbreak and he asks, “You sure you want to be a priest?”

Marcus can't help but laugh.

“I mean, all those tight collars,” Peter says, with an apologetic smile. “And pesky vows.”

“I'm sure.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Peter sighs. “Pity.”

Marcus gives him one more kiss, then gets out of the car.

In a second – a lapse of judgment – he leans into the open window and asks, “Can I write to you?”

Peter stares at him.

Marcus wants to say that it'll be strictly platonic, innocent letters, nothing to feel guilty about, but he doesn't want to lie. He's told enough of those already.

Peter reaches for the glove compartment and pulls out pen and paper. He jots down his address and phone number.

Marcus' legs feel like concrete when he sits on Tomas' left. Behind him, Peter is driving away, back to his uncomplicated life.

Tomas smiles with a tease, “How was your night, Don Juan?”

Marcus rubs his eyes and doesn't look at him when he says, “I said I'll write to him.”

For a moment, Tomas doesn't say anything and Marcus prepares for the admonishing he deserves because he's being stupid. Tomas will bring up Jessica and the many reasons why writing to Peter is a terrible idea and that will put some sense back into his head.

“Good,” Tomas finally says, no mockery in his voice. “Good, it's nice to have a friend sometimes.”

Until the ferry comes, they sit in silence.

 


End file.
